


Your Grace

by medelrey



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medelrey/pseuds/medelrey
Summary: Jon agrees to a marriage with The Dragon Queen and Sansa makes a marriage of her own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in August and jonnsansa on tumblr contributed to it (I'm very thankful!) Anyway, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.

Sansa hates when Lord Baelish summons her; hates when he has her cornered in a tiny room to spill some dirty secret he can never manage to keep.

When he finally arrives, he looks at Sansa like he’s the cat that ate the canary. And in this moment, perhaps he is. “What is it?” Sansa asks, tucking her cloak tighter around her shoulders.  

“Jon is to be king.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “He’s already King in the North. Did you come back just to gloat about it?”

“You’ve misunderstood, my dear. He’s to be the king consort; The Dragon Queen has agreed to the proposal.” Baelish smirks as Sansa’s throat feels tight with anger, red flashing behind her eyelids.

“But he’s a bastard,” she spits, the word rolling off her tongue so easily; so naturally, like she never proclaimed he was a Stark to her.

“Is he?”

“Of course he is,” Sansa says, furiously knitting her fingers together. “We all know it. We’ve heard the story a million times; what his mother must have been like to make my father lose his honor.”

“Indeed, what a woman she was.”

“Why does Jon deserve this? Why does he get all the glory and I’m to sit on the side to watch?”

“You’re right. You’ve always been right. Haven’t I always told you the North belongs to you?”

“Yes,” she says darkly. “But what option do I have now than to let it be ruled by a man who’s half a Stark?”

“And if I told you there was another?”

Sansa looks at him carefully, torn between telling him to leave and never return and hearing him out. She knows he’s sly; slimy, too cunning to be trusted.

“Let Jon be King in the South and let me rule by your side. You’d have everything you’d always dreamed of; Winterfell in your hands, The Vale at your back. Isn’t that what you want, Lady Sansa? How unstoppable you are alone; imagine what we’d be together.”

“Cross me once,” Sansa says harshly, “And you’ll never live to do it again.”

And in that moment, Lord Baelish _is_ the cat that ate the canary. He’s won, once again, and Sansa hates herself for it.

“Lady Sansa,” Baelish calls, already halfway out the door. “You should know Jon isn’t your brother at all, but your cousin. But that’s a conversation for another day, isn’t it? We must make our intentions known.”

It takes every bit of willpower for Sansa to remain still in the face of Baelish’s smirking. Only once the sound of his footsteps disappear does she let out the trembling breath she trapped in her lungs, and she leans against the wall with weak knees. Cousin? How? If not her father, then who? Her mind whirls with possibilities: her late uncle Brandon dead too long to sire Jon, leaving Benjen and… Lyanna. She grew up with tales of her aunt and Rhaegar, but the story was always framed as a loveless kidnapping that ended with her death in the Tower of Joy. Perhaps it was not. Or, she thinks darkly, it was.

She needs answers. She does not doubt Littlefinger’s words. They were well-timed, and surely he knows better to lie to her again–but she needs the truth. Knowledge, after all, is power, and she would not be cornered by Littlefinger anymore. She straightens, and draws her furs tighter to her body. She only wishes she had known earlier. How foolish she was to be played once more by Baelish.

***

The first time Sansa kisses Jon is on her wedding night, a fortnight after his own to the Dragon Queen. She’s dressed in a thick winter gown, hair braided down her back with wine-stained lips. “Sansa, no.”

“Why not? Because I’m married to another?”

“You chose to marry him, Sansa.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” She asks, slamming her fists against his chest.

“I tried,” he replies, stilling her wrists. “You know I did. But you didn’t trust me. You wanted to be Queen in the North but it came with a price.”

Sansa stares at Jon like her look might kill him. She half hopes it does. “You were never a Stark.”

Jon flinches at her words, dropping Sansa’s wrist. “You’re upset,” he says softly.

“We could have ruled together,” she sighs, biting her lip. “We could have done everything together. You don’t remember what you said to me in Castle Black? Does it no longer matter?”

Jon groans in frustration, taking Sansa by the shoulders. “I fought a war for you, I almost died for you, I agreed to marry Daenerys to protect you. Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

"To protect me? You let me marry Lord Baelish and yourself to the queen so you could protect _me_?”

“How else could I? You think you’re so smart and Gods, maybe you are, but you’re still so naïve. You think you made the right choice to marry Littlefinger? You think you would be safe? How easy would it have been for him to have you put aside had I not agreed to marry the Queen…”

“I…”

“No,” Jon says. “Don’t start. I’m doing this all for you. You think he’ll dare mistreat you now?”

“But you agreed to marry her before I announced my intentions,” Sansa spits. “Don’t make excuses just so you can keep your intentions honorable, Jon Snow.”

“Littlefinger thinks he’s much better at hiding his secrets than he actually is. You think we all didn’t know what he wanted the moment he showed up with the Knights of the Vale? You think he hasn’t whispered of the marriage for months now?” Jon raises his voice, accent growing stronger as he grows angrier. “What did you think would happen, Sansa? That we could marry and live a life of seclusion and be totally blissful? That’s not how the world works and we both know it.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m some child who doesn’t understand anything, Jon.” Sansa takes another heavy gulp of her wine before she slams it on the table.

“Then don’t act like one,” Jon replies, body tense with rage.

“You think you know everything now, don’t you? King in The North wasn’t good enough so now you’re Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Sansa,” Jon warns, trying his best to not to lose his temper. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Tell you how I really feel?” She steps closer, until they’re almost chest-to-chest, until they can almost hear each other’s heartbeats. Sansa winds one arm around his neck, pulling Jon so her lips are at his ear. “Don’t you think about it? That you could’ve been my king? That this could be your wedding and you’d have Winterfell as yours?”

Jon hates himself for it, but his arm encircles her waist, pulling her as close as he can.

“How angry do I have to make you until you give in?”

He groans in response, fingers tightening in the fabric of her dress. “Sansa, why?”

“Why not?” She asks, running her teeth along his neck.

“Because,” he responds, loosening his grip and stepping back. He wants to tell her yes, that he feels the same, that he wants the very same as her. Jon desperately wishes he could feel her bare skin beneath his hands and hear her whimpers in his ears.

Sansa huffs, refilling her glass of wine. “No matter what anyone says, you’ll always be branded the Bastard of Winterfell.” She smirks as she hears Jon’s knuckles crack as he clenches his fist. It’s almost like she can see the thoughts churning in his brain; Sansa’s sure she can visualize the images he’s imagining. But Jon surprises her, taking a deep breath before he turns to step out of the room.

“Don’t you wish to take your King’s Right?” Sansa knows she’s done it now; pushed Jon far beyond his limit. She’s seen it broken only once before; the time he almost killed Ramsay Bolton for her. Her heart pounds with excitement as he reaches for her, gripping her arms so hard it almost hurts.

Sansa relishes in his smoldering glare, in his dark eyes that swim with anger and unspoken words. Her heart pounds with the idea she’s made him this angry, that she’s pushed him too far. For all his fury, Jon touches her like a fragile little thing, like the porcelain object she once considered herself. She leans into him, smirking softly as she gazes up. “I’m not a king,” he declares, caressing her arms.

“You are to me.”

He can hardly stand her whiplash of emotions; her harsh words and even harsher compliments. He can see the pain behind her crystal blue eyes and flushed cheeks. He can see the way she feels the very same as he does. Jon kisses her first this time, pressing their lips together with every bit of fire that burns through his veins. His fingers trace the soft skin of her neck as he moves his mouth against hers. She tastes like wine, bitter and a little angry, with a little sweetness on her tongue.

But he pulls back when she nips his full bottom lip, a groan leaving his lips and a sharp sigh through his nostrils. “We’re not doing this, Sansa. You’ve a husband. And I a wife.”

***

Sansa scowls when the royal procession leaves Winterfell; the Dragon Queen in a carriage laced with her sigil. The Lady of Winterfell can’t bear to watch Jon step in after her, his long black cloak soaked in the icy mud from Winterfell’s courtyard. She sighs in disgust as she feels Littlefinger’s hands slide around her waist, taking a sharp step to the right to disentangle herself. “Is my Lady Wife upset? Shall we go up to have a lie-down?”

“No, Lord Baelish,” Sansa spits through tight lips. “Though perhaps you might.”

She leaves for the Godswood before the last of the Royal Guards are through the gates.

Months pass before she hears any word from the South, and it isn’t even from Jon. Baelish hands her a letter over dinner, letting his fingers linger too long upon her hand. She yanks the scroll from him, rolling her eyes as she cracks the black wax of Daenerys’ seal. “I’ve been invited to spend some time at court. The Queen wishes to know her only family better. She says she wishes to know more of the North.”

“Ah,” Baelish says, tapping his knuckles against the wood of the large table. “When shall we depart?”

“There is no ‘we’, Lord Baelish. The invitation mentions only me. You shall stay here, in Winterfell.”

“My sweet Sansa,” he begins, but she stops him short.

“Don’t ever call me that.”

Baelish’s eyes flicker dark anger before he catches Sansa’s wrist, squeezing too hard to be comfortable. “Do not forget I am your husband, Lady Sansa. And though I love you dearly, have you forgotten what happened to your dear Aunt Lysa?”

Sansa glares, anger flaring in her veins. “Do you, Lord Baelish, dare to make threats against me? In my own home? I am Sansa Stark, born in these walls. And you, you’re some made up lord.” The grip on her wrist loosens and Sansa stands. “We’ve all heard what kind of scar Brandon Stark left you with; should you like to find out what Jon would do to you if he knew the threats made against my life? No one can protect you now, Lord Baelish. I’m not my mother; I’d dare not beg for your life to be spared.” She pauses for a moment, smirking at his forlorn face. “Tell my ladies to pack my things. Enough for three moons.” _How nice it is to have the upper-hand._

  
***

  
Sansa never thought she’d be back to King’s Landing, especially not with Jon as king and cousin to the Queen. She’s not nervous, not when Jon wraps her in his arms and sweeps her off the ground. She laughs into his neck, cradling her face against his skin and her stomach flipping at his familiar scent. “Welcome, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says softly, stepping forward and standing close behind Jon. “We are so happy to have you visit King’s Landing.”

Sansa blushes as Jon lets her down; her gown catching the dust of the tiles of the beautiful castle floor, still high above the city just as she remembered. She’s met Daenerys on a few occasions, but she’s never felt more intimidated than she does right now. She’s not even sure why. Perhaps it’s because of their location or their relationship; perhaps it’s because of Jon. Sansa pushes a smile onto her face, gracefully curtseying to the small blonde woman in front of her. “And I thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”

Sansa glances around at the horde of guards surrounding them; gold cloaks and what seems like an entire army of Dothraki soldiers. She feels slightly uneasy, knees a little wobbly as she remembers the last time she was here. “You look worried, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys murmurs, stepping forward to wrap her fingers around Jon’s arm. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” she smiles, “A bit weary from the travel. And King’s Landing is not a place I thought I’d return to.”

“You’ll find it much changed,” the Queen smiles, looking up to Jon before looking back to Sansa. “You’ll be much happier here than before.”

“I’ll protect you,” Jon grins. “I promise.”

Sansa can only nod as Daenerys offers to give her a tour of the remodeled castle.

“Leave your chamber door unlocked,” Jon whispers in her ear. “I intend on finishing what you started.”

Sansa downs her rich wine, cheeks flushing pink. “Alright,” she replies, smiling before she trails behind the Queen. 

***

True to his word, Jon does visit her, quietly knocking on her door before he steps into her room. He kisses her without hesitation this time; kisses her with everything he has; his tongue tracing the delicate seam of her lips as his fingers struggle to undo her braid. “Gods, how I’ve missed you,” he mumbles, “There hasn’t been a second I haven’t thought about you.”

Sansa laughs as her hair falls loose, cascading down her back and around her shoulders. “You should’ve never left me,” she croons, tangling her fingers into his curls, walking them back toward the bed. They fall in a giant tangle of limbs, lost in each other. Sansa’s skirts catches between her legs as Jon settles between them, his own cloak falling over his shoulder and almost ruining the moment.

Sansa laughs as Jon kisses her, teeth knocking against his lip as she works quickly to undo the clasps of the cloak from around his neck. It falls with a quiet swoosh onto the fine silks and furs of the bed. Articles of clothing are shed one by one, revealing smooth skin for lips to kiss and fingers to explore. Sansa can hardly breath when she’s fully undressed, exposed to Jon in a way she’s only dreamed of being. “You’re beautiful,” he says, leaning forward to press her gently against the mattress. Jon covers her body with his, pressing his lips to her jaw before licking a stripe down her neck before he reaches her collarbone.

“Keep going,” Sansa encourages, not knowing exactly what she’s asking for.

Jon smiles, kissing down her body, bravely, without stopping as his lips press to the curve of her hip and just above her belly button. “I want to taste you,” he says, nipping her skin with his teeth. “I bet you taste so, so sweet.”

His dark eyes flick up to Sansa’s blues, both their hearts pounding in their chests. She knows it’s not proper; that a lady should ever have a man’s mouth between her legs, but she nods, ascending to Jon’s wishes. Jon’s not wrong; she is sweet, like honey on his tastebuds as he takes he first swipe with his tongue. He licks slowly, with his palms holding her hips to the bed as she struggles to arch her hips up. He wants to make her want it; to have her beg with his name on her lips.

Jon teases her with his tongue, circling gently around her clit, never quite hitting the spot that’ll send her to the heavens and everywhere in between. Instead, he wraps her legs around his head, Sansa’s thighs locked against his warm cheeks. He glances at her face as he licks deeper, sinking his tongue into her cunt just to hear her whimper. She’s beautiful like this, he decides, far more beautiful than he ever could have imagined.

She rocks her hips against his face, fingers curling into his hair to keep him in the place she wants his most. Fuck proper, Sansa thinks, arching her back to have Jon’s mouth envelop her heat. She loses herself in the feeling; in Jon’s warm mouth and the way his fingers press into her skin. He licks her over and over, tonguing her clit, his hand wandering up her body to caress her breasts, thumbs tracing gently over her perked nipples. The knot in her stomach is wound tight, too tight to bear as she rocks her hips faster now, letting the tip of Jon’s tongue slide up and down her dripping center. Sansa comes suddenly, unfamiliar with the feeling. But she feels like she’s floating - flown into the stars and everywhere beyond. She yanks at his hair so hard she knows it must hurt, but Jon doesn’t care - he licks her through her orgasm, moving his mouth in time with her hips to drag it out; to make her pleasure last as long as he possibly can. By the time she comes down, there’s no one in the world but her and Jon, nothing existing but them in the entire universe. She whimpers; the only sound she can muster in her afterglow.

When she opens her eyes, Jon’s staring at her, jaw still wet and pink with her juices. “Fuck me, Jon. Fuck me right now.”

The word tastes foreign on her tongue but it stirs something deep inside Jon, spurring him to movement. He kisses her hard, letting Sansa taste herself on his tongue as he traces her lips. “Ride me,” he says softly, “I want to watch you.”

Jon grips her hips as she slides down him so easily; her wet heat enveloping his cock like she was made for him. She moans loudly, digging her fingernails into his chest as she begins to rock up and down. Jon stays still, watching with hooded eyes as the beautiful girl above him finds her pleasure in him. He wonders if she’s ever done this before; whether she’s ever had the least bit of pleasure with a man. Jon’s heart grows possessive as he realizes he may just be the only man to have made her come.

His hands find purchase on her ass, gently guiding her up and down. Jon controls the rhythm - slowing her down when he can tell she wants to move faster. He has her for the next three months, but he wants this first time to last. He wants to remember this moment for the rest of his life. “Jon, please,” Sansa whines, bracing her hands on his chest, attempting to move just a little bit faster. “Please,” she says again, leaving red scrapes with her fingers.

Jon can only nod, lessening his grip and moving to hold her hips instead. He watches with fascination as Sansa rides him for all it’s worth, her thighs aching with the effort. Her beautiful red hair is matted with sweat, falling across her back and her chest before she leans forward to kiss him. Their hips crash together as Jon pushes his up, bucking up as her cunt twitches around his cock. The kiss they share is messy, all teeth and tongue, full of pent up frustration and longing. Jon nips her bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as she flexes once more.

When Sansa sits up once more, she rolls her eyes, gaze falling on the Targaryen tapestry hung behind the large bed. She reaches above reaches above the headboard, ripping the fabric from the wall. “This isn’t you,” she huffs, tossing the object to the floor.

Jon grunts and digs his fingers into her ass once more, pushing his hips up to bury himself even deeper. “Then what am I?” He asks, sitting up, sucking a deep purple mark just below her collarbone.

“You’re mine,” Sansa says, grasping the back of Jon’s neck. “No matter what anyone says.” She yanks his head back to place a harsh kiss on his lips, grinding her hips down, Jon pressing into places she never knew existed.

He flips them suddenly, fucking her up the mattress until her hands slam into the wood of the headboard to keep from hitting it. Jon pounds into her with new vigor, his fingers braced around her shoulders to keep his thrusts shallow, cock barely leaving her as he fucks her. “Gods,” he groans, “You’ll kill me, Sansa, you do feel so good.”

She manages a smile, feeling the tingly feeling of an impending orgasm approaching quickly. Sansa wraps herself around Jon, her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He buries his face against her skin, breathing deep as he knows he won’t last much longer. “Come, then,” Sansa says, tightening her legs around him. “Come for me.”   
Jon groans as he lets himself go, falling to a dark abyss as his hips lose their rhythm and he comes with a start, not even able to pull out. He fills her, spilling deep inside her. It’s a mistake, he knows deep down, but one that can be rectified with some moon-tea, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps a few weeks from now, perhaps never.

“Seven hells,” Jon mouths against her neck, “I’ll make it up to you.”

Sansa laughs. “Only you would think to say that.”

He smiles, pulling out to lay against her side. “Three moons with you will never be enough.”

“No,” she agrees, rolling over to kiss him softly. “It won’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> the ending kind of fell apart, i know. anyway. find me on tumblr @ mattysigh.


End file.
